We Must Lie
We Must Lie Nerves: flickering like the campfires of a great army, on the precipice of a great conflict, they lit up across Illiv’s skin. He breathed slow and cool, hoping to sooth the bonfire in his mind. After killing he felt like a child, born new into the world once more, coming up gasping and stricken with shock in a world of vibrant color and sound. Illiv’s vision became a reflection of his own mind; at the edges of his thoughts were the blurred figures of blood-chewed men contorting and crying out one spasm at a time. Dark canvas, dark expressions on dark armored guards, dark muscles remembering the black times when black swords cut black swaths through the black path to find the quickest void for the men, or women, or children they killed. The begging he heard in the background din was louder than the screaming that attempted to cover it. “Lord Cell. Welcome. No weapons.” He handed over his swords tenderly and looked the guard in the eyes. “Please be careful with them.” The words held sincerity. My family. The guard nodded; his face was the grave of a child who had died quickly with two blades in his back. He motioned Illiv into the tent. It was poorly lit. There was a low table with a number of papers, ink and envelopes scattered across it. A young girl, certainly no more than sixteen summers sat in a small throne of old tribal blankets at the far end of the room. “Illiv? Illiv Cell?” Her voice was high and light, like a bell rung during a soft snowfall. Illiv bowed, slowly. “Lady Lydia. Lord Evaerus and I have received your missives.” He looked her in the eyes. Her face was streaked with blood, which ran in small, slow drops from her eyes. felt cool when he saw her, he saw—or rather felt—the march of his loved ones in her eyes. Their pace was relaxed, unafraid. Peaceful. All the lives he had taken, they no longer clawed desperately at his mind with the fervor of dying men, but their memory seemed distant and detached. Ghosts that could not harm him, that were drifting farther away. The rest of his sentence caught in his throat as he stared at his goddess. Lydia’s eyes widened as she gazed upon him. The innocent, the unarmed. And such guilt, such desperation and duty working in tandem. He despises himself. But he sees murder as his duty…to me. ''Not so long ago she had felt the same guilt. The guilt of so many innocent dead, sent to her embrace. ''And is he wrong? I’m at peace with myself, but is that wrong? She pursed her lips and tasted blood. No. I feel their pain, and I suffer it still. I have learned that I do not need to hate myself to feel their sorrow. '' “You have come to ascertain the validity of my divine claim.” She paused and waited for him to answer. He did not. “Your swords. You’ve named them after your sisters.” He had seemed somehow peaceful, but a pained look was upon his face, then. “Yes. I did. It is important to retain such sentiments, is it not?” The question tore across his being, and she saw his raw hurt. She felt for him. “Yes, it is. We must not lose our souls in this senseless violence…And there is never a reason to bring more of it into the world.” The muscles in his jaw tightened, but he bowed his head. He understood. “Do you believe in me, Lord Cell?” She stood and walked close to him. He was taller than her, but he felt as though she floated above him. He remained tense. His body was painted with symbols, his face resembled the dead. She could not understand the writing but guessed at the meaning. The words echoed through his mind. “''Never a reason.” It was all for nothing. ''Illiv left. He was dead again. She knew that he had not noticed her. Frozen in time, like a ghost. She laid a hand on his chest, and she could feel his pain, it burned to touch. “Illiv?” He suddenly felt refreshed. Someone was touching him. He looked down. It was Tamara. “I’m so sorry…” He tried to pull away from her, but his body would not move. “Zed, I love you.” She hugged him. When he opened his eyes again he was in the tent with the goddess. She was standing in front of him and there were tears on his cheeks. “Do you believe in me, Illiv?” she asked again. “Yes, completely.” There was conviction in his voice. “Excellent. It is good that fate has guided us together, for I am going to need you to do something difficult.” He wiped a tear from his cheek, and his hand became stained black and grey. His heart felt hard and strong. He was prepared. Relieved, even. He would not have to take another innocent life. It was not necessary. “Yes, my Lady.” “I need you to kill a thousand men in cold blood.” He stared at her, and the faintest hint of a smile was upon her lips. “But…” “But this is war, and it is necessary. We’ve spoken through letters about the conflict here in Gildor. You have voiced your opinions that your heart speaks for Darshia Whitefang, and that my bid for Lord Tighan is misguided. Your intuition is strong.” Realization began to dawn upon Illiv, and relief fell over him in a wave. “When the time comes, I am asking for you, and all of your Vix to betray him. To stab his men in the back, so that Darshia may ascend safely to the throne of Gildor.” Illiv could not help but laugh. It had been a long time since his path had been so clear. “Yes, my Lady. It is good that fate has brought us together. Tighan’s men shall fall, and I shall purge the monsters from our ranks who find themselves able to sleep soundly during the nights to come.” He knelt before her. “I pledge my life to you, Lydia. I am grateful that I shall no longer shed these tears alone.” ''So am I.